


Dust in the Wind

by hybridshade (shimyaku)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Fear, Gen, Memory Loss, Mental Instability, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, References to Suicide, Secrets, Self-Destruction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimyaku/pseuds/hybridshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal knows what he is and what he’s done, but as he grows older the memories are fading. Now he’s alone in the world with no exit strategy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust in the Wind

**Title:** Dust in the Wind  
 **Pairing:** gen, Peter/Neal friendship, past Neal/Kate  
 **Rating:** pg13-ish  
 **Warnings:** slightly AU, creature!Neal, a lot of canon events either don’t happen or happen differently etc etc., canonical character death, unsuccessful attempts at self-harm/suicide (kind of)...  
 **Word count:** ~5700  
 **Summary:** Neal knows what he is and what he’s done, but as he grows older the memories are fading. Now he’s alone in the world with no exit strategy.  
 **A/N:** I won’t spoil what kind of creature Neal is, but this does mess with the usual lore of said creature. Then again, Neal is always a bit of a special snowflake~. Also, this is a slightly belated submission for Caffrey-Burke day.

 

 

 

 

_I do my best not to lie, I’ve already lied enough. I, myself, am a lie, as is everything they think they know about me._

_I must protect myself. And protect them. So I keep my secrets close._

_But Peter... I suppose he’s going to find out one way or another._  
  
\---{{{--}}}---

Neal hovers at the edge of his radius. One step forward and the anklet beeps orange, warning him. It’s a sort of boundary he’s not had to contend with before. He’d been given rules many years before when he’d first awoken, enough time ago that he’s lost count and forgotten just how many years it actually was. He hadn’t known how to disobey back then, how to think for himself, how to plot and scheme and _want_ things.

It had taken a lot of time to learn how to _want_ , and then he’d battled with the notion for a long time thereafter.

But now he knows the pleasures of food and wine, possessions, art, music, sharing a bed - all things he would prefer not to have to give up, not when he’d only discovered them so recently.

He walks the not-quite-thirteen miles that make up the circumference of his new prison, though by the time he’s come full circle, dodging the buildings and other obstacles in his way, he knows he’s walked far further than that. The sun will rise soon, so he knows he should head back to June’s and ready himself for work - he will walk the perimeter again tomorrow night, check for any alternate routes he may have missed.

On the return to his apartment he looks out over the cemetery he can see in the distance, it’s position less than a mile too-far. He longs to go there, stand on that hallowed ground, feel the seasoned energy of it rise up through his feet.

No doubt he will return to this spot so he can stare at that place a little while longer.

He wonders how many late night ventures it will take before Peter clues in that he doesn’t sleep.

\---{{{--}}}---

The next night he is quicker about mapping the perimeter, a few adjustments made on the previous night’s findings. He stores it to memory quickly, and then heads to his adopted spot near the water, looking out and over the cemetery across the way. He knows there are other cemeteries of sorts within his cage, but none have quite the charisma that this one seems to.

Neal thinks he can feel the call of the ground, and imagines that if he were to step foot on that land, he would sink through the soil, dripping down into the earth like molten lava, and return to that place from which he was made. He imagines he would find peace there.

\---{{{--}}}---

It takes over two weeks for Peter to confront him. The marshalls have been keeping close watch at the Special Agent’s request, and think that someone has been tampering with his anklet, causing his location to move all over the grid during the nighttime.

Neal almost laughs.

“You can tell them there’s nothing wrong with their precious equipment, Peter. It’s just me taking a midnight stroll here and there.”

The agent nods for a moment, then pauses, looking back down to his desk and paging through a fairly hefty stack of papers. Neal sees as his shoulders immediately tense, and Peter whips back around to face him, eyes accusing.

“I think you’re going to have to take a moment to re-evaluate, if you think I’m ever going to believe that all of this is just a mere ‘midnight stroll’. Neal, this is all night, _every_ night. It’s impossible - I know you’re smarter than that.”

“Nothing’s impossible, Peter,” he sighs, realising exactly where this conversation is heading, and which of his closely guarded secrets he’s going to have to surrender. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much when he knew he’d have to spill eventually. “You must have come to some kind of conclusion about this, right?”

“Yeah, either that you’ve found a way to meddle with your supposedly tamper-proof anklet, or you’re not human and you don’t sleep.”

Neal’s grin was blinding. “Now there’s the Agent Burke I know and love.”

“Neal...” Peter shook his head in disbelief. “Can we please be serious for a minute here? Because this could become _very_ serious if we can’t provide the marshalls with a probable explanation. We’ve been making good progress, I thought, and the last thing I want is for you to have to go back to prison because of something so ridiculous.”

“It’s not... Peter, please,” Neal cradled his head in his hands, pleading with his eyes that his _friend_ Peter would at least try to understand.

“Are you... are you okay? You’re not sick or anything, right? Is it insomnia? Some kind of anxiety? Sleepwalking? Give me something here.”

“If only it were,” _this would be so much easier_ , he finished to himself. “Your previous guess was much closer. Try again.”

“So you-” Peter blinked. “No, wait. Please tell me you are _not_ going to try and convince me you’re not human. I mean, you’ve done some pretty outrageous things but there are limits, Neal.”

Clearing his throat, Neal placed his hand atop Peter’s, hoping the physical connection might better convey his sincerity. “Peter, I’ve never said this out loud before - not even to Mozzie - and I don’t expect you to believe me straight off the bat, but it’s true that I’m not a normal person. In fact I’m very _ab_ normal. And not technically a person either. I don’t sleep, I barely eat, I don’t age though I’m actually rather old, and I can’t die.”

Peter’s face was blank.

“You’re old, huh?”

Oh, and _that_ wasn’t dripping with cynicism _at all_. Neal heaved a sigh.

“I know for certain I was around in the 20’s but I have memories that I’m pretty certain are much older than that.”

“Right... and you can’t die either? That’s a pretty handy trick.”

Ignoring Peter’s tone, he ploughed on. “No, I can’t die. Believe me I’ve tried. There is a way to kill me but I don’t know what it is - it’s not anything straightforward.”

“Christ, Neal. Just _stop_ this.” The agent stood up suddenly and threw his hands in the air. “I really thought we were starting to get somewhere, starting to trust each other. I might even have called you friend on a couple of occasions, but _this_! Neal, if this is a con it needs to stop now because I’m not putting up with it, and if it’s really you talking then... then I’m worried for your health and you’re going to see someone about it whether you like it or not.”

Neal figures he should just have a hack at his hand with a letter opener and let Peter watch how rapidly he heals. Certainly that would get the agent’s attention and nudge his thoughts in a more helpful direction. But, it would also be messy.

No, if he had to resort to a more drastic measure there was no way he was going to do it in here. Too many eyes and ears about. He was going to have to get the other man outside.

“Peter, will you come outside with me? I want to talk to you about this but... not in here.”

\---{{{--}}}---

He remembers once when he tried to ‘absorb’ himself into the earth.

He can’t recall where it was, or when. He just remembers the great pine trees all around him, and the moment itself.

His feet and legs were bare, and he’d focussed all his concentration on where his feet made contact with the ground, visualising his flesh regressing back to it’s original state, clay and mud and charcoal and stone.

Exhaustion had taken over as subtly as being sideswiped with a car. He remembered that cracking open his eyes had taken the greatest of effort, and he’d felt so dizzy and disorientated as if he were on the verge of keeling over and fainting.

But then he’d glanced down, to where he was steadily sinking into the ground. However, the second the realisation occurred the motion suddenly ceased, leaving him buried knee-deep in the forest floor.

His mind had felt then as though it were made of tin, his thoughts bouncing off the walls of it like echoes off the side of a tunnel. It had taken some time to re-gather his wits about him, and to regain his motor-control, but then he’d leant down and set about digging himself out - hands frantically clawing at the hard ground to separate flesh from soil.

\---{{{--}}}---

Neal takes his time sitting on the bench, leaning down to remove his shoes and socks and press the bare soles of his feet into the lush grass of Central Park. He thinks he can feel the ground humming, the vibration of the earth passing up into his body and causing his feet to buzz, as though they’re being tickled with familiarity.

He smiles. But Peter just stands there and watches him with an odd look on his face. He must really think Neal’s insane by now. And it’s not going to get any better.

“I’m a golem,” he finally confesses.

The agent’s mouth twists with confusion, though his eyes expose his ever-lingering suspicion. Peter clearly thinks he’s trying to con him. “You’re a what-now?”

“A golem.”

“Gollum? Isn’t he that char-”

“Peter, _God_ , sit down and be quiet. I see I’m gonna have to do this the hard way.”

\---{{{--}}}---

Every now and then the pain comes.

Occasionally it’s brought on by stress or mental exhaustion - that’s usually easy enough to figure out. Occasionally he perceives it as an age thing, since he knows he’s _old_ , and things seem to get worse as time goes on. But more often than not, it happens when he’s trying to remember something, something from back when he could still have been considered young. He doesn’t know why there seems to be great gaping chasms where he knows thoughts and memories used to be, whether his brain has blocked them out on purpose or if maybe he’s somehow starting to degrade and the fabric of his mind is just gradually eroding away. The latter, while perfectly plausible, doesn’t explain why he’s still as strong and agile as he’s always been. The former, however, makes him worry what kind of horror he’d have to try so hard to protect himself from.

Usually the pain presents as a headache, something akin to a migraine, while other times it hits his limbs or muscles or bones, aching and grinding and clouding his thoughts for a few hours at a time, doing away with his usual clarity.

Most instances he gets warning, and then can adjust so that he’ll be home in time, or simply be elsewhere where no one will bother him.

The worst times are when he starts forgetting things on the spot. The pain will grab him out of the blue and shake him around like a can of whipped cream, and whatever words or thoughts had been on his mind mere seconds ago will suddenly disappear into the ether. Seemingly once the pain dissipates, all his ‘missing’ thoughts will return to as they had been, just as if nothing had happened. But of course, he can’t know that for sure.

\---{{{--}}}---

He knows he remembers things wrongly sometimes.

He has a lingering image of the night he’d first awakened, opening his eyes under the blue light of the full moon, the breeze almost-warm against his naked body where he lay on the grass in the centre of a cemetery.

He recalls little else about that night, but his maker had told him the date of his ‘birth’ on a later occasion. He had gone to a library in Paris to look it up once, only to find that there was no full moon present on or around that date, nor had the weather been warm. Much to his frustration, he had since forgotten the date he’d been told, and can no longer remember which town the cemetery had been in.

He’s not sure whether he’d been lied to in the first place, or if his mind has simply created the memory to compensate for another that he’d already lost.

Neal wants to be angry about it, but by far it’s not the only memory that has become hazy and disarrayed. Instead he dwells in the ever-deepening abyss that is his apathy.

\---{{{--}}}---

For a while, life goes on somewhat predictably. Peter’s still getting used to the whole ‘Neal’s not a human’ thing, but El is far more understanding about it and has been helping him come to terms with the idea. Of course, that doesn’t stop the older man asking the most absurd questions - anything from ‘does the Earth speak to you?’ through to ‘what’s your libido like? Do you even _have_ a libido?’ Neal had nearly slapped him for that last one, but he couldn’t begrudge Peter’s curiosity.

Months pass as they carry on with their usual cases - mortgage fraud and the like - and their case clearance rate is the envy of all the other divisions. Neal manages to settle into a comfortable rhythm with Peter as his partner, his ‘memory disappearances’ have been a lot less of late, and some of his long-term anxieties have calmed themselves due the now-familiar atmosphere of the FBI work, the acquisition of new friends, and not having to look over his shoulder at every turn.

That is, until he hears that name.

Adler.

Suddenly all else pales into insignificance. The name sparks recognition from somewhere buried deep in his mind, and memories he thought he’d lost forever come swimming back into focus so quickly he thinks he might pass out.

_It’s him, surely it must be..._

Except that unless the man somehow acquired the key to immortality, he must have been six-feet-under for decades by now. So it couldn’t possibly be him.

\---{{{--}}}---

Peter watches out the corner of his eye at the emotions that suddenly play across Neal’s face as soon as the name ‘Adler’ comes up in their case. He knows now how to recognise when the con-man remembers something - the light in his eyes seems to get swallowed up and replaced with the blankness that comes over him when he’s not playing a part, his skin pales like he might be sick and he forgets to take a breath for a few moments. Not that he needs to breathe _all_ the time (apparently), but he says it comes almost naturally now. Peter glances around at the other occupants of the room but none of them seem to take notice.

When he looks back Neal seems almost back to normal, but he finishes the briefing as quickly as he’s able and then ushers the other man into his office, shutting the door and signalling to Diana that they be left alone.

He sits Neal down and lets him calm for a minute, then places a file in front of him. The ex-con hesitates but opens the file anyway, finding all the personal details they have on Vincent Adler, including the only photo the FBI database has of him that isn’t extracted from some grainy image that’s been attached to some random newspaper article.

Neal stares at the photo for a long time, tracing the lines of Adler’s face with his index finger. Eventually he moves it to the side and flips through the papers, stopping when he comes to the notes on Adler’s criminally noteworthy family.

“The Adler that made me...” Neal speaks lowly, almost in a whisper, “I remember when he married and had a child. His wife was always on edge around me, she called me a soulless beast once. The boy seemed fine around me when he was young - it was part of my duty to watch over him - but as he grew he adopted his mother’s opinions more and more, to the point where he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me.”

Taking a breath, Neal went on. “I called him Young Master, but everyone else knew him as Louis.”

Blinking, Peter glanced down at the file, just to double-check, and tried to keep his jaw from landing on the ground.

“Neal... Vincent’s grandfather was named Louis.”

“Yes, Peter, I see that.”

“But- that-... that means that-”

“My maker was Vincent’s great-grandfather Jean-Marc,” Neal cut in, pointing to the page in the file, “And therefore I’m over one hundred and thirty years old.” _Which means I’ve lost about forty years worth of memories_ , he noted to himself.

“Christ.” Peter took his time standing up, staring out the window in silence, then sitting back down again as he raked his fingers through his hair. “Christ, I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with this.”

“ _You’re_ telling _me_.”

\---{{{--}}}---

“He wasn’t all bad, you know, Jean-Marc? I scammed and forged and thieved and murdered under his orders, but he was good to me... He said he made Kate for me so that I wouldn’t be so lonely.”

“You didn’t know any better, Neal.” Peter just looked at him with sad eyes. He knew Neal was glad that some of his lost memories had returned, but he couldn’t help but think that it might have been a good thing some of them had vanished.

“Well, eventually I developed a conscience. I remember the horror coming over me like a flash flood, it felt like I was drowning in the pain and I felt sick to the stomach in the way a human might. It was so foreign to me, it confused me for a long time. But still, I told him I would never kill again and I took Kate and we ran. I didn’t stick around long enough to see much of the fallout, but what I did see... I’d never seen him so angry before. He used to say I was like a son. I think my leaving broke him.”

Peter placed his palm over top of Neal’s hand. “You know that if we keep making progress on this fraud case, one way or another you’re probably going to come face-to-face with Vincent.”

“Do you think he’ll know who I am? What I am?”

“From what I can tell, the Adlers like keeping things ‘in house’ so it’s highly likely.”

Something changed in Neal’s eyes then. Peter wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, but for the con-man’s own sake he decided he was going to let this one play out.

\---{{{--}}}---

A case was still a case, so their investigation carried on and, just as Peter had expected, eventually it led them straight to a direct confrontation with Vincent.

They’d half-barged their way into his office, the arrest warrant practically vibrating in Peter’s jacket pocket, and while Adler had been warned in advance by his secretary he was still infuriated by their apparent inability to knock. He’d all but leapt out of his chair at their appearance, ready to have his security team drag them back the way they came regardless of their privileges as men of the law, but had stopped dead in his tracks upon recognising Neal.

“My God,” he’d muttered in disbelief, “The Creature. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“My name is Neal,” the con-man had hissed.

“Neal, hmm? Did my great-grandfather give you that name?”

“I gave it to myself.”

“Well then, _Neal_. I imagine this meeting is as much a shock for you as it is for me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Hmm.” Adler had stepped closer then, his head inclining to the side as he inspected Neal’s face, staring into his eyes with such intensity Peter felt like he should have been preparing for the air between them to spontaneously combust. “From all that I’ve read and heard, you’re far more advanced than the others. I’d been told you’d evolved somehow, but until now I didn’t believe it possible.”

For all that he tried to keep a straight face, Neal’s expression still flickered with interest.

“What others? There was only the two of us.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, _Neal_. From the stories passed down by my father and grandfather, dear Jean-Marc didn’t know what to do with himself once you eventually absconded, and lost his sanity in pursuit of creating a second you. Every single one was a disaster, and they grew more and more aggressive and disloyal. The female - and she was the _only_ female - was the first to go berserk, though I think you’re already aware of that... The rest awakened as increasingly more dangerous and less human-like, more akin to the golems you read about in storybooks, the ones fashioned in the name of hatred and fear.”

Vincent took a step back so to lean his hip against one of his office chairs, looking every bit in control of the situation. “Perhaps by some point you had assimilated yourself with the regular masses so you didn’t hear about it, but grandfather Louis, he came to be the greatest Golem Hunter that ever lived. He made a point of chasing down all the crazed creatures that Jean-Marc continually created and let loose, and put them straight back into the earth from whence they came - including your little female companion. I imagine she lasted a good number of years before the psychosis set in - I heard in the end, she crumbled to dust before your very eyes.”

Neal barely noticed the trembling of his limbs. “Then what-... why am I-?”

“You, dear boy,” Adler’s smile looked like that of a grinning cobra, “You are so much more than the others were. No doubt that’s the only reason you were able to manage an escape from grandfather Louis - though his leg was never quite the same afterwards. Family legend has it that not only were you made from the nutrient-rich soils and clays of a cemetery in Jean-Marc’s native France, but he mixed in the ashes of his newly dead brother. The ashes granted you the unique addition of having the shadow of a soul. The shadow allows you to act as human, make decisions, have a conscience and the like. No doubt it’s a burden at times, but also a great bestowment that allows you to live on and keep your sanity.”

“But I-,” Neal was lost, “I do not want to live.”

The con-man stepped forward into Vincent’s space, desperately grabbing hold of his jacket lapels. “You are the only remaining descendant, you know how my life was created, you _must_ know how to end it!”

Peter paled. “Wait, Neal, what-”

Adler laughed aloud. “Oh, Neal! The irony that the only one with enough brain capacity to even _conceive_ of wanting to die is the only one left alive! Truly, this has made my week.”

“ _Please._ ”

“Now, now. Let’s have a seat and discuss this, shall we? I’m sure we could come to an agreement.”

“I’m sure you could,” Peter finally interrupted, waving Diana and Jones into the room to take custody of Adler, “But it isn’t happening on my watch. Neal, back away from him please, we’re taking this back to the office.”

\---{{{--}}}---

He remembers when Kate died.

He might have forgotten a lot of things that have happened, things that he’s done, but watching Kate die is something he probably couldn’t ever forget even if he wanted to.

Although, he’s not sure if ‘died’ is really the right word. Rather, ‘destroyed’ might be more appropriate where their kind is concerned.

They had been running through the streets of Prague at the time, spiralling their way across Europe. Something or someone had been on their trail, too close for comfort. They’d never seen them, but their instincts told them both that their pursuer was there, waiting.

It had been Kate’s fault that they’d found themselves playing the prey for once - he’d acknowledged that, but he didn’t begrudge it. He knew there’d been something wrong with her - she could barely restrain herself when something riled her up, her moves were unusually chaotic when she fought, and she would lose herself to daydreams unpredictably, any time any place. She was only present and coherent about a third of the time, and it had become increasingly hard for him to stop her trying to attack people and making a scene.

Then one night they’d been suddenly fleeing through the maze of back streets, dashing through hallways and balconies and back alleys in the dead of night. He’d barely even realised when Kate had disappeared from his side, such was the blackness that surrounded them, but then had come the pained cry from up ahead and he’d known then and there it was all over.

He’d crept forward and found her standing under a lantern hanging down from above. She’d been clutching her chest as though in pain, and her eyes were looking straight at him, yet not seeing him at all. He was too late - her consciousness had been taken and she was little more than an empty shell.

Then suddenly her body met it’s end, and the disintegration began. It started at her feet and crept its way upward, collapsing her form into particles that trickled down, not unlike sand through an hourglass. It was the most horrific scene he’d ever witnessed. The hundreds of bloody murders he’d committed had nothing on that moment.

What had bothered him most of all was the soundlessness of it - little more than the gentle _’shhhhrrrr’_ made by the particles of dried soil and clay as they descended into a pile on the floor. He’d seen more than enough death, had himself caused much of it, to know that human deaths were rarely silent. Whether the crack of a gun or the gurgling of blood in a man’s throat, a human body dying before it’s time never really went quietly.

For Neal it was always a slap in the face to be reminded of exactly what he was. Or more so, exactly what he wasn’t.

\---{{{--}}}---

He remembers the dark months and years that followed Kate’s ‘death’. He wallowed in the shadows, neither eating nor resting, ever cursing himself that he’d instinctively lashed out at Kate’s killer and not thought to allow the man to take his life, too. He had since searched high and low for the faceless hunter, but had found no trace of him or where he might have gone.

He’d carried a leather pouch that contained Kate’s remains around for nearly a year after her destruction before he’d finally found a place he considered adequate for her to rest. It was a hilltop by a small town, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea - a place she’d loved so much when they’d once lived nearby for a period of time, so he felt right about it when he finally untied the pouch, and gently scattered the dirt over the small field. He’d then laid down precisely where he stood, and hadn’t moved from his bed of grass until the sun had long disappeared over the horizon.

He was finally alone. So very alone.

In the end he’d taken it upon himself to attempt to put an end to his own consciousness. He’d started with something small - slicing off his fingertips, opening a vein - and worked his way up to whole fingers, a hand, an arm.

It never worked. It hurt well enough, though not so much that it made him want to scream about it. And then it would start burning, a hot and scratchy feeling. The parts that he’d ‘removed’ would dissolve down into dust, somehow absorb themselves back into his body, and then reform back into whatever was missing at an alarmingly fast rate. He had vague recollections of his whole body having done such a thing, many years before when he’d been shot or stabbed and had fallen to the ground in a heap of dirt, then suddenly had woken back in his human form without a single scratch on him.

Initially he’d wondered if it was his mind playing tricks on him - maybe he was starting to go crazy like Kate had? But then he’d tried setting himself on fire, and jumping off the side of a dam in the hope he would melt down into little specks of mud and clay and sink lifelessly to the bottom of a lake. But no. He’d simply awakened once he’d washed up onto the riverbank, with nothing to show for his actions but wet clothes and a mild suntan.

It appeared he was doomed to suffer eternity.

\---{{{--}}}---

Neal nearly leapt out of his seat when Peter finally returned from the interrogation room. Usually he would stand on the other side of the one-way glass when they were questioning a suspect - that is, if he wasn’t actually already in the interrogation room itself. In this instance however, Peter had forbidden it and ordered Neal to remain in his office. It seemed the con-man was preoccupied enough with his own thoughts that he actually obeyed for once.

Regardless, the moment he was in earshot Neal began pouring out the questions, nearly all of which he couldn’t provide the answers to since the interrogation had been concerned with the fraud case only and not anything regarding Neal. The younger man had gone silent once he’d impressed that fact, dropping into a resigned slouch on one of the desk chairs.

“I’m sorry, Neal,” Peter offered, “He lawyered up in the end like we knew he would, but he wasn’t giving us much anyway.”

“Implying that he did give you _some_ thing...”

Peter pursed his lips, trying not to think about what it all meant.

“He told you, didn’t he? He told you how to kill a golem.” The desperation in Neal’s voice made his heart seize in his chest.

“Nope.”

Neal’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“He did write it down for me, though.” Peter reluctantly pulled a folded up envelope from his pocket, “But I haven’t looked at it.”

“Please, Peter. Please give it to me.”

“I don’t know if I can. Or if I want to.”

“Please. I need... I deserve the right to have claim over my own life. I deserve that choice.”

Looking down at his desk, Peter stared at the unmarked white of the envelope, almost glaring at the thing as though it had done him some great disservice. And maybe it had. Maybe it still would.

\---{{{--}}}---

Peter hesitated a moment before pushing open his front door, wondering how he was going to explain to El.

Though, once he did explain, El would likely understand. She was just that sort of person. It was himself that was going to be the problem. Surely he’d done the right thing, but that wasn’t going to stop the guilt that threatened to eat him up from the inside out.

“Peter?”

El came out from the kitchen and nearly flew into his arms. He didn’t know how she knew how desperately he was in need of comfort, but she always said she could read him like a book. To her, there was no Peter-centred mystery she couldn’t solve.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard day.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’ve got dinner just about ready, though. Why don’t you come straight to the kitchen with me?”

Kicking his shoes off and putting his jacket down, Peter indicated the stairs. “I might just go wash up first, ‘kay?”

“Mm, just come to the kitchen first, please? I’ve whipped up something special and I want you to see it.”

Confused but intrigued, the agent acquiesced, letting his wife lead him into the half-light of the dining room.

And there he was.

“Neal...”

The con-man looked up from where he sat, eyes catching the light and causing the blue to stand out in an almost ghostly fashion. “Hey, Peter.”

“But, I thought... once you read it...”

“And I was this close to giving into it, too.” Neal stood and moved to stand in front of him. “I read it, Peter. And that knowledge is precious to me, but... once I got thinking, I realised how great things have been recently with you and me and the team, and excluding the whole Adler affair, I don’t think I’ve ever been this content before. At least, not that I can remember. So... I figured I’d stick around for a while.”

Peter thought for a moment. Then snorted, a tear in his eye. “You big ol’ sap.”

And then he witnessed a phenomenon he’d seen so few times before he could count the occasions on one hand - a genuine Neal Caffrey smile.

“Well, Peter, I guess now you’re just gonna have to live with this big ol' sap.”

\---{{{--}}}---


End file.
